Say it If It's Worth Savin' Me
by Corinne Jane
Summary: "You know Callen, you aren't missing anything, no one ever calls me by my first name." "That's because no one ever likes you." Those words echoed in his head everyday, haunting him in his sleep, pleaded his case for suicide. No death Gibbs to the rescue


"_You know Callen you're not missing anything, no one ever calls me by my first name."_

What he didn't say is that it hurt like hell-at least when he thought about it, but most of the time he didn't, because, well, it hurt like hell. And he had no time to feel sorry for himself. He made sure to never show it, he couldn't afford to let anyone see his weaknesses or emotions but that didn't mean they weren't there. Years of hiding them made him feel stronger somehow, in control, a simple technique and he could forget about his emotions-it often helped in his line of work. And hell, because of his work, he had no social life so what did it matter?

He was just an operative, just CIA scum. He was expendable, forgettable, a person everybody loves to hate. No, needs to hate. Everybody needs that one person to just fixate all their terrible feelings they could never admit to having on someone, and often for people in Law Enforcement that person was him. Constantly being surrounded by people who either distrust you and hate you or are worldwide soulless criminals who would sooner kill you for the fun of it then help you out was one of the most difficult things he had ever had to come to terms with. Sometimes waking was the hardest part of his day, because sleeping was sure as hell not. When he first joined the Agency he thought that he wouldn't be able to sleep, that either the guilt or the ghosts of people he had killed would haunt him, but soon he welcomed the darkness because it hid him from everything. The pain, loneliness and hate. No one could find him, it blinded him and numbed him, it grew to be his friend.

Now, he wasn't so sure. He had been to DC and LA, both teams worked well together; they had an underlying friendship and love for one another that he never had with anybody. At one point in his life he had yearned and ached for that, now though, he just looked at it with disgust and disdain. It made him almost sick to see them hug, and joke, and be all concerned for one another. And then the jealousy would rise up along with resentment and he would push it down. And then the bastard in him came out and he tore into anyone who crossed his path. There were times that he still ached for someone-anybody-a friend, a lover, an acquaintance that didn't wish him dead, anything to hold on to but there was nothing. He was nothing outside the CIA. No one to care for, no one to care for him, no friends, no family, no nothing. And if that wasn't bad enough he couldn't just go out and grab a one-night stand and have some fun because he may get called in either by his Director or by his Criminal Boss. So now he never went home. Ever. He still paid for the apartment but he was hardly in town, being shipped all over the world and even when he was in his hometown he stayed at a hotel. He couldn't bring himself to face the emptiness of his life.

He was so close to the edge, Roper had him seeing the shrink three times a week. The things he had to do for the job, the murder, the evil, the sacrifice, everything over the past twenty years on the job had been building up with no one to talk to, no one to turn to, he was truly alone with nothing but evil and darkness and at times he thought it would pull him down, drown him and contaminate him. He could feel himself slowly slipping away to the other side. He fought so hard against it, but then what was the point of staying? What was the point of fighting it? He had asked himself that question so many times, it was like the devil was on his left and the angel on his right; and the only answer the angel could give was a cryptic question-"What about the difference you make? The lives you save? Sure you kill one bad guy but save a whole civilization from extermination by nuclear war heads." Well what about those people? They hate him; they wish to see him tortured slowly to death. Maybe he should have just left those people to die, just kickback and watch it play out without a care in the world. No guilt, no darkness, no pain.

Instead though he continued to fight, more for control than for the fact that there were people whose lives counted on him fighting-and if that wasn't a sure sign of him turning he didn't know what was. He could feel himself rotting on the inside, a piece of him dying everyday; he wanted to break down so badly but he kept fighting. He couldn't break down, not now, not ever.

But everyday he had to face evil and if that wasn't enough he also had to face people, all who hated him and just kept pushing him away. Just shoving him to the edge. He stopped caring about what others thought along time ago, and yet still every once in a while he needed someone, something, some place that was safe and warm. Security, and yet there was nothing. Many times he found himself staring down the barrel of his own gun but he could never pull the trigger because he was too scared of the unknown, too scared that he'd end up in eternal suffering. He was screwed either way.

He went through endless nights of self-pity, getting drunk and stumbling home, lying on the cold, hard tiles of his kitchen floor, wondering why this was happening, what had he done to deserve this? He had joined the CIA to help, and he was, but people never saw it that way, he never thought he'd be this way either. He had good intentions but ask anyone and they'll just say good intentions pave the road to hell. He didn't know what to do, even if he quit his job, people would always hate and distrust him, so there was no point in giving up the only thing he had left, because if he didn't have his job he really would have nothing. He hated emotions, hated them, hated the fact he felt so strong-it disgusted him, he was a grown man he shouldn't need anyone. He's was a damn CIA Agent he should be tougher than this, he should be cold and unfeeling, not on the verge of a mental breakdown.

But he was. Or maybe he had already broken down but he was in denial. Roper had given him a month off said to get some down time and come back better. He snorted; he didn't know if he'd ever be 'better', what was there to be better from? Being hated? Being despised? That wasn't up to him, but his shrink did kindly point out that his drinking habits were. It was only when he had come in to work drunk that Roper had given him a month off, afraid to lose his best agent. He laughed again. That's all he was.

And in that moment he felt himself break inside.

The next day he was sent to Los Angeles to find Browning, and ran into G. Callen.

"_Kort."_

"_You know, Callen, you aren't missing anything, no one ever calls me by my first name."_

"_That's because no one ever likes you."_

And that's when he shattered.

Everybody had always called him Kort, never Trent, not even his middle name Thomas; always Kort. Like he was nobody, it wasn't worth their time to call him Trent. They didn't want to get personal and intimate with him, with the scum-of-the-world-I-hope-you-die-soon Kort. Because he was worthless and stupid. He was a murderous traitor, because he deserves to die. He's a liar, evil at its best. A wolf in sheep's clothing. Every voice full of hatred and bitterness, spouting off horrible things, promises of death, vowing revenge, cursing him out, slapping him in the face, all of it flooded his mind at once He jerked and winced as the memories overpowered and overwhelmed him, he nearly missed his mouth every time he took a swig of bourbon.

He could feel the emotions swirling inside of him, his body shook with the force of them, his limbs tingled, his stomach knotted and churned, his chest hurt, lungs shriveled, throat tightened, muscles clenched, jaw tightened, eyes burned, head hurt. He could feel the emotions crawling all over him, controlling him, and he was at their mercy, trying to fight what was to come, he clamped down, tightening his own throat as a scream seemed to erupt from his chest. He refused to let it come out, and with that tears swam in his eyes. He shook his head in denial. No. This couldn't be happening, it just couldn't.

He opened his anguished eyes, tears shining brightly in them, his body shaking as he lay once more on the kitchen's cold, unwelcoming floor. He had a hard time getting up between the shaking and feeling like lead it had took all the energy out of him to sit up and lean back against his cupboards. It was then, staring at his cold, empty apartment, dark and uninhabited that it seemed to hit him like a freight train. The cold seemed to close around his throat, the silence was deafening, the darkness reminding him that he was alone in this world. Truly and utterly alone. He let a sob loose, it ripped through his body, the tears finally free and running down his cheeks; shame and disgust, self-loathing and anger screaming at him to stop, but he couldn't. The sobs wracked his body, and the tears just kept coming, pain tearing through him.

"Shut up, just shut up! Stop crying you stupid, pathetic, asshole. You deserve this…you…just shut up! Suck it up! It's no wonder everybody hates you look at how disgusting you are!" He screamed at himself hitting his fist on the floor and hitting his head off his cabinet, breathing in harshly. "You deserve this, you killed all those people, you hurt them, you're a bastard, this is karma!" A voice hissed, he looked around but nobody was there, he had checked his apartment and cleared it right when he came home.

"Just shut up, shut up, shut up shut up shut up!" He moaned putting his face in his hands, pressing in his eyes as he sobbed and shook still, unable to stop. "God. Help me. Somebody….I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry….Noo…please…."

"He was a father, she was a child…all those people you killed….they were something to somebody, you are nothing to nobody. If anyone deserves to die it's you." The voice said.

"Stop it! Just shut up! I KNOW!" He screamed taking the strainer full of glass and chucking it across the room, he leaned his arms on the counter, hunched over it. He turned his back and slid back down to the floor. Suddenly the tears were gone but the sobs were still wracking his body, and the pain was still there. And so was his gun. He looked at it; he had killed so many people with it, mostly bad people, but still people. Some were innocent people, one innocent was too many. Tears blinded him once more; he could do this, the fear of suffering eternally no longer plaguing him-either way he was going to suffer. It didn't matter, what mattered was not bringing others down with him. He had fought so hard, but he just couldn't do it anymore. He laughed humorlessly before putting the gun in his mouth.

His mind raced and held onto the fact that nobody would find him for a month-when he was due back at work, his grip tightened on the trigger. There was no point in going on, none. He needed to end it. He had to. It was the right thing to do. But why was he hesitating? A voice in his head whispering for him to stop, while the other cursed him. He felt his mind begin to shatter as his soul had a few days prior. "Please….stop….let me rest in peace…." He whispered to himself.

And suddenly he had his phone in his hand and was speed dialing Gibbs. His mind screamed at him, why was he doing this? Yet the other half of him was calm and silent telling him if Gibbs called him Trent, he'd be ok, everything would be fine, but if not he could end it, he could rest in peace. He laughed once more without humor before pressing the phone to his ear.

"Gibbs."

He was silent, tears still coursing down his face, unable to speak.

"Hello?"

He tried to speak but nothing came out.

"Gibbs…" He trailed off, his voice raw, cracking, full of agony.

"Trent?"

At first he sobbed harshly and loudly into the phone, he could hear Gibbs worrying-_worrying-_over the phone, his tears ones of relief.

"Trent what's going on?"

"I don't know. I was…I was about to kill myself." He said matter-of-factly like he was asking about the weather.

There was silence for a minute, Gibbs didn't bother asking why. The NCIS Agent just asked, "What stopped you?"

"You said my name." He whispered, his voice cracking again.

Then he laughed, but this time with something akin to happiness and comfort.

Maybe he wasn't so alone after all.


End file.
